Celebrating Grant, Taft, Nixon, Hayes, Polk, and Van Buren

Three or four years ago, I do not think I would ever believe that one of my most beloved wardrobe staples, both professionally and socially, would become button-down blouses, particularly Oxfords and other traditionally classic striped and gingham numbers. I cannot quite fathom what the negative connotation was, or from where it specifically arose, though if I think back upon certain contextual cues perhaps it was merely a visceral aversion to the idea of mundane, bureaucratic corporate responsibility, which transcended to my aesthetics. Though the aversion, to some extents, persists, alive and well, I have fully embraced the uniform. To give the look a casual feel, I paired it with tight denim and tall ombre riding boots.

For Presidents Day, a federally enforced and superficial national recognition of our former leaders, albeit one that is notably and thankfully more benign than the mourning charades in North Korea over the recently deceased maniacal monster, I wore a new black and white gingham blouse. The occasion was a casual afternoon visit to Brooklyn, for some quality family time with Elizabeth, Winona, David, and the gang of expressive pets. For the past few consecutive weekends, during my visits, Winona has accomplished some impressive milestones for a plump and pretty infant her age: first, the back to belly roll over, second, the complementing belly to back roll over. We were all elated. We also made sure to spend a few moments in silence remembering those lesser memorialized presidents, even Carter; Lincoln and Washington get sufficient face-time, literally (currency) and figuratively.

On a more serious note, after a childhood of the iconic profile of inaugural president, General George Washington, it has been mildly interesting observing the variation in our coins, to commemorate others who have shaped and formed this country.

Monday also marked the first time I read a picture book to my niece, a pastime I have firmly resolved to remain loyal to and to cherish; as a child, many of my most fond memories are those when I was being read to aloud. It was not clear how much she retained from a literary comprehension perspective, but I could tell from her eyes, wide with wonder and innocence, that she was fascinated with the bold colors and shapes. I sound like my mother, but it will be before I know it, blink of an eye, when she can start to sound out the words and then begin to read along with me. Exhilarating, learning the intricacies and the verbal and textual signaling of a language.


Red, black, and white are a classic chromatic trio; since my blouse and jeans were so dark, this bold pop of cherry from my broad bakelite bangle was perfect.




For some added pizazz, I wore these rhinestone and pearl earrings, arranged as though they are a cosmic vortex, perhaps some spiraling galaxy, or, more colloquially, the bird eye view of a bouquet of flowers.